


(Un)Broken

by callboxkat



Series: Sanders Sides College AU [8]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breakup, Deceit shows up but the chapters he's in can be skipped, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Crush, some plot points are still developing so this will be an adventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-11-04 04:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17891189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callboxkat/pseuds/callboxkat
Summary: A few weeks have passed since Logan got his concussion, And everyone is trying to get things to go back to normal. However, when Logan's headaches stop improving, Roman has trouble with a cast mate in his play, Virgil's roommate starts acting even weirder than usual, and even Patton seems to be hiding something, it becomes clear that the 'normal' of before may not be coming back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter warnings: doctor visit, talk of injuries (including a head injury and broken arm), medication mention, headaches

_March, 2018_

 

“So, Logan, how have your headaches been?”

Logan glanced around the room, with its pale gray walls and aquatic animal themed art. He was sitting on the examination table across from the doctor, tapping his fingers against his leg. He hated medical appointments, but they had been necessarily frequent as of late. It had only been a few weeks since a regrettable and unfortunately infamous incident in which he took a fall down one of the staircases at his college campus. He had come away from it with a concussion, a broken arm, and several bruised ribs.

“About the same,” he admitted after a moment.

“Do you have one now?”

“I do.”

“How would you rate it on a scale from one to ten, one being hardly any pain, and ten being the worst pain imaginable?”

Logan considered. “…Three,” he said. “Four, perhaps.”

The doctor frowned. “Only a four? You’re wearing a baseball cap indoors.”

“My headaches are accompanied by light sensitivity, as you know. This helps to avoid that.”

The doctor glanced up at the lights, which had already been dimmed. Logan set his jaw, disliking the way the doctor had chosen to convey his point.

“I rated the pain at a four because that is what I consider it. You stated that a ten is “the worst pain imaginable”. That is quite a lot of pain. My headache is far from that.”

The doctor nodded, typing something in the computer. “Is the medication I prescribed helping?”

“It’s hard to say just yet, but I believe so.”

He nodded again, typing something else. “Would you like to increase the dose? We can add another ten milligrams if you’d like.”

“I would rather not. I don’t want to become dependent.”

“I respect that.” He turned to face Logan fully, clasping his hands together. He regarded his patient seriously. ‘Although, Mr. Foley, I have to ask—have you considered that these migraines may not be temporary?”

Logan frowned. He had; of course, he had. How could the thought have not occurred to him? He simply had not wanted to consider it as a serious possibility. That denial—he supposed there was no other word for it but denial—seemed to be being put to an end.

“Is there nothing else you can do for me?” he finally asked, his voice slow and careful.

“Head injuries are tricky. There’s a limit to what we can do. It might have helped, had you sought medical attention sooner, but… we can’t change that now.”

Logan gritted his teeth, looking away.

“I’m not trying to criticize. I don’t see the point, especially when it is about something we cannot change.”

Whether criticism was worthwhile here or not, the physician was correct. The delay in Logan’s treatment had greatly affected his recovery, and it was all his own fault. He never should have refused to see a doctor, and he shouldn’t have lied to his friends about hitting his head in the first place. He knew that he had only made things worse for himself, and that he had terrified his friends in the process. Logan could argue that he hadn’t been himself at the time, that he hadn’t been thinking clearly, and while that had probably contributed to his poor decision-making at the time, the inflexible stubbornness of his actions had been all Logan.

“What we  _can_  control is how you deal with these headaches.”

“Hm.”

“Should your migraines prove to be a chronic condition, we can work together to figure out a balance of lifestyle changes and medication that works for you to properly manage them. Things like a consistent, healthy sleep schedule, taking frequent breaks from difficult task, and other methods of avoiding triggers and minimizing the duration of your headaches may really help you.”

Logan sighed, looking down at his hands where they sat in his lap. One was partially hidden by the bulky blue cast encasing his right forearm. The watch he usually wore on that wrist was now on his left.

“Would it be acceptable to put this discussion off until our next appointment?” he asked even though he knew that there was still plenty of time left in the appointment slot. “I would prefer to wait and see if there is any more improvement by then.”

The doctor regarded him for a moment before nodding. “In that case, let’s move on. What about your ribs? Are they still giving you trouble?”

“No, they seem much improved. The bruises faded approximately a week ago, and while I do still notice some tenderness, it is only when I have inadvertently bumped or applied pressure to them.”

“So, they are healing well?” the doctor clarified.

“Yes.”

“Excellent. As for your arm, I still believe that we should wait another week to remove the cast. At that point you will receive a removable splint.” He glanced at the clock above Logan’s head. “We can talk more about that when the time comes.”

“Is that all, then?”

“If you have nothing else to discuss.”

Logan affirmed that he had nothing else to say, gathered his phone, water bottle, and jacket, and left the office.

…

As he drove home, Logan couldn’t help but think about what the doctor had said. He really didn’t like to think about the fact that while his arm and ribs would heal, he might never be rid of these headaches.

To think that a split-second—a broken backpack clasp, a hurried step, a bit of rainwater on a staircase—could cause such a permanent change in his life… it was awful. The thought that he might have what amounted to permanent brain damage, as someone who valued his mind above all else, was rather terrifying.

 _What if I’m never as smart as I was?_  he couldn’t help but think.  _Would I even know?_

Logan squeezed the steering wheel tightly with his left hand and kept driving, determined to shift his focus to the task at hand. It wouldn’t do to drive distracted. He couldn’t afford to be in a traffic accident, could he? Not on top of everything else.

Logan huffed bitterly.

He supposed he should count himself lucky. His head injury really hadn’t been that bad, not compared to what it could have been. His fractured arm would be out of a cast very soon, and his ribs had been only bruised. He should be grateful that he hadn’t been hurt worse, and that his friends had cared enough to try to force him to the hospital, although it hadn’t been until that forgotten night in the park that they had succeeded.

Logan pulled into a space in front of his apartment building and turned off the engine. He sat there for a moment in silence before adjusting his sunglasses and opening the door. He walked quickly inside, wanting to be in the bright sunlight as briefly as possible.

He shut himself in the apartment and put away his school materials. His appointment had been scheduled close to when his classes had ended that day, so he hadn’t gotten the chance to come home beforehand. Now, he took off his shoes and hat and lay down on the couch, covering his eyes with his arm. He and his friends were meeting that evening, as they often did, but Logan had time for a nap first. It might help to assuage his headache pain, he reasoned. That way he at least had a chance at enjoying himself that afternoon. Time would tell.


	2. Chapter 2

It was Friday night, and Virgil could not have been more relieved that it was the weekend. He and his friends were getting together to hang out and go bowling, something they didn’t do often. Virgil was looking forward to spending time with everyone, especially since they hadn’t been able to do so as much recently.

Virgil had just arrived at his friend Roman’s house: a cozy white two-story with a porch, tidy flowerbeds, and closely cropped grass. They were all meeting here and then carpooling to the bowling alley.

“Hey kiddos!” Patton cried as he bounded towards his friends. “Hi, Logan,” he added almost as an afterthought, specifically addressing the most formally dressed among them.

“Hello, Patton,” Logan said with a small inclination of his head.

Patton hadn’t been calling Logan “kiddo” lately, Virgil had noticed. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard Patton call his friend by the nickname since… It must have been spring break, he thought. Probably? He wasn’t sure; but in any case, it had been some time ago. If he was right about the last time being spring break, it had been nearly two months.

However long it had been, Virgil couldn’t help but wonder about the change. Were Patton and Logan drifting apart? Had they had a fight he didn’t know about? Was Patton just finally listening to Logan’s frequent requests to not call him “kiddo” anymore? Or was it something else? They certainly still seemed to be on good terms, but maybe Virgil just wasn’t picking up on something.

He didn’t know, but while the rational part of himself told Virgil that it was likely nothing, he couldn’t help the sting of anxiety in his chest. Virgil was probably just overthinking this.

He decided to leave it alone for now. He had to focus on destroying Roman at bowling, after all.

…

“Oh!” Roman cried as Virgil’s ball struck the pins. “A 7-10 split!”

“I’m still gonna beat you, just wait,” Virgil laughed.

“Yeah, sure, says the guy trailing me by ten,” Roman snarked.

“Come on, kiddos, it’s just a game,” Patton said. He was sitting at the counter behind them, sipping a smoothie.

“It’s only a joke, fear not!” Roman said, turning to shoot Patton a grin.

Virgil’s bowling ball came rolling up the conveyer belt just then, and he casually scooped it up. He held it aloft as if giving Roman a toast, then walked up to the lane. He threw the ball, and….

Roman stared in shock as  _both pins_  went down. One skidding across the wood to take out the other. Virgil had gotten a spare. He turned to his friend in exaggerated outrage. “What?  _How?!_ ”

“An incredible amount of unholy power,” Virgil said, already sauntering back over to his seat. “And a little luck—Logan’s turn!” he cried before Roman could respond.

Logan broke off from where he had been conversing with Joan, looking surprised that his turn had come up already. “One moment,” he told Joan, who just gestured at the lane with an amicable smile.

Logan walked up to the bowling balls and selected his own from the assembly. Roman had noticed that it was a few pounds lighter than all of the others (especially the one Roman was using—he may or may not have chosen a heavy one to show off). While Logan would probably claim it was chosen purely because it fit his fingers best, or that he had preferred its plain color, Roman guessed that Logan had picked it for ease. That was good. Logan should take care of himself, especially since he hadn’t even gotten his cast off yet. He still shuffled a bit when he walked, too, although he tried to hide it.

Even though the lighter ball already meant that it was harder to knock down as many pins as Roman’s own 16-pound ball could, Logan was honestly just  _really bad_  at bowling. Roman thought that he should probably be using the bumpers, although he would never dare suggest it.

Logan bowled an unimpressive gutter ball, followed by knocking down the two pins furthest to one side of the lane. Patton let out a cheer when they went down, but Roman didn’t miss Logan rolling his eyes at what he probably felt was a slightly patronizing gesture. Roman, though, knew that Patton probably really was just excited that Logan had knocked down some pins, but Logan didn’t necessarily see it that way.

“My turn!” Talyn announced unnecessarily. They hopped down to the floor from their stool and walked over, lightly touching Logan’s shoulder as he passed by on his way to rejoin Joan.

…

At the end of the game, Talyn was in the lead, followed by Virgil, Joan, Roman, Patton, and finally, Logan.

Logan didn’t mind coming in last place. His talents lay in more intellectual pursuits, and besides, he was still not back to 100%. He had still had fun spending time with his friends. He had had a nice chat with Joan about a project they were doing for their math class, and it had been amusing to hear Roman splutter indignantly at his decisive loss to Virgil—despite his earlier confident boasting that he would win.

“Shall we have a rematch?” Roman offered.

“I’d be okay with it,” Joan said. “Logan?”

Everyone turned to look at him. Logan felt heat rise into his face.

“We don’t have to,” Virgil quickly said.

“I—well, I don’t know,” Logan said.

“You don’t have to actually play,” Roman said. “You can just hang out and watch. Maybe I’ll even give you a couple of my turns, if you want them.” The corner of his mouth curled up in a hopeful smile.

It was clear that the possibility of a second game was only in question because Logan was there. They all wanted to play—they were just leaving the decision up to him.

“Ah… fine,” he relented. “I’ll play.” Virgil gave him a slightly skeptical, concerned look, but the cheers of his other friends were enough to make him more certain of his answer. He gave Virgil a small nod of reassurance as Roman and Talyn went up to the counter to extend their rentals.

The next game went much like the first, with Logan in last place and Roman again losing to Virgil—although this time by a much lesser margin. Logan and the others returned their bowling balls and shoes and walked outside to head home.

“One more and I’d have won!” Roman was insisting.

“Sure, sure,” Virgil laughed.

“Did you have a good time?”

Logan looked over to see Patton had come up alongside him. He cleared his throat. “Certainly. Getting to be with you all was… satisfactory.”

“Oh, I’m glad!” he said, his smile widening. “We’ve missed hanging out with you.”

Logan had missed them too. Even though he still saw everyone in classes, and even though they had often come to visit him while he was unwell, being together in this context was an entirely different matter. He was glad that he had come tonight. He almost hadn’t, due to that conversation with his doctor and his concern that the environment would severely worsen his headache. He was glad he’d changed his mind. The bowling alley had been fairly empty, so it hadn’t been too loud for him, and the lights and color contrasts hadn’t been as harsh as he’d feared they might be. He had had a nice time.

While he could feel the start of a headache pressing in his skull, he could tell that it would not be a bad one. It was worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: self deprecation, headache mention, doctor mention, injury mention, food mention

Patton walked into his apartment and quietly shut the door behind him. He slid the lock into place, then leaned back against the door with a soft sigh. He didn’t know why he was upset. He should be happy, shouldn’t he? He’d spent the evening bowling with his friends, after all.

He just kept remembering that moment, when he’d cheered about Logan knocking down those two pins—because Logan had been having a really hard time, and it was the first time they’d hung out together having fun like they had before his injury, and Patton had just been _so_ excited to see him finally hit some pins! Logan, though, had clearly not been nearly as excited. Patton had seen how he rolled his eyes. Probably thinking that Patton was making fun of him. But Patton would never do that—Logan was one of his favorite people in the world!

Patton traipsed over to his sofa and threw himself onto it heavily, facedown on the cushions.

He knew that it was dumb. It was just one little thing, one little eye roll. It just hurt him to think that Logan might have thought poorly of him, even for a second.

He was distracted from his wallowing when his phone chimed its text tone at him. Patton reluctantly rolled partway over, just enough to grab his phone from his pocket and bring it up to his face.

Oh! It was Logan! Patton quickly swiped to open the message. It was a group text, sent out to all of them.

 **Logan:** I greatly enjoyed our excursion to the bowling alley this afternoon. I hope that everyone else had as pleasant of a time as I did.

A second message popped up a minute later.

 **Logan:** My apologies if I somehow lessened anyone’s enjoyment of the evening. I understand that especially while I am still in recovery, I am not the most ‘fun’ person to be around. Thank you for inviting me along.

Patton started furiously typing, but a series of other messages were already flooding in from Joan, Virgil, and Roman, all telling Logan that they’d had fun too, and yelling at him for implying that he’d somehow made the evening any less fun. Patton sent off his own message anyway, and as soon as he did, the notification that Talyn was typing their own response came up. Good. Logan didn’t get to talk bad about himself! Not on their watch!

Several long minutes went by, and then Logan responded.

 **Logan** : Perhaps I misread the situation. Thank you for your assurances. It will not be necessary to ‘march over to my house’, ‘physically fite’ me, or hug me so tight that you ‘wring out the nerdiness’

 **Logan** : Additionally, Virgil, I feel the need to remind you that Patton may decide to physically fight _you_ if you continue to insist that gloominess is your area of expertise.

Patton paused, then scrolled up. He must have missed that message in the barrage of notifications. He found it—Virgil didn’t get to be self-deprecating either!—then scrolled back down to reply.

 **Patton** : I will! I’ll fite both of you if I have to!!!

 **Virgil** : Ok Pat chill, no fighting necessary

 **Patton:** Good!

 **Roman** : We should go bowling again. You all only got a glimpse of my skills.

 **Roman:** (Virgils dont interact)

Virgil’s and Logan’s replies came through simultaneously.

 **Logan:** I do think I would enjoy another such outing.

 **Virgil** : You can’t stop me

The chat devolved into banter after that, mostly between Virgil and Roman. Patton just read the messages as they came through, not replying, until the others had to leave.

…

Monday rolled around all too quickly for Patton’s taste. He didn’t particularly want to get up early today, to go to class—one of them was _math_ , after all—but he supposed there were bright sides. He did also have an art class today, and he would get to see his friends at lunch! He just preferred Tuesdays and Thursdays to the other three days of the school week because he had his actual classes with his friends.

Patton struggled through his morning class, which felt like it was moving at a glacial pace. He felt like he’d been there for so long. But finally, the bell rang; and with immense relief, he traipsed down to the cafeteria to meet his friends.

“I don’t blame you,” Roman said when Patton had finished sharing today’s math class woes. They and Virgil were sitting together, eating lunch in the cafeteria. “When are you ever going to need to know how to calculate a third derivative?”

“Exactly,” Patton sighed, putting his head down on the cafeteria table. “But it’s required, for my major….”

“You—you could always ask Logan for help,” Virgil suggested after a moment. “He’s pretty good at math.”

“Uh, yeah, I sure hope he is,” Roman said, his tone of voice mimicking that of a certain well-known six-second-video. “He’s a _math major_.”

Patton shook his head, but he did so without lifting it off the table, so it was more like he just rolled it morosely from side to side. “I don’t wanna bother him. He’s still got his concussion thingy to deal with.”

“C’mon, Pat, it couldn’t hurt to ask,” Roman said. “Besides, he could do derivatives in his sleep. Concussion or not.”

Patton just let out a soft, extended whine. If he hadn’t still had his head down on the wooden table, he would have seen Virgil and Roman glance at each other.

He felt a gentle poke on the top of his head. “What’s up?” Virgil asked.

“He’s gonna think I’m dumb,” Patton mumbled.

“Why would he think that?” Roman sounded genuinely confused. Patton could hear Virgil’s chair creaking as he shifted.

“Because he already _does_ ,” he heard himself whine. He knew he should just stop talking, but… whoops.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Virgil argued.

At the same time, Roman said, “That’s preposterous!” He had a habit of pronouncing it like ‘perpostrous’, which annoyed Logan to no end. He was pretty sure Roman did it on purpose at this point, evidenced by the fact that he said it correctly this time, when Logan wasn't there.

“Logan knows you’re not dumb,” Virgil continued. “And it’s not like he hasn’t helped you before. What’s up?”

Patton sighed, gathered his willpower, and lifted his head from the table, sitting up. “I… I guess you’re right,” he sighed. He forced his features into a meek smile. “Sorry, kiddos. I’m just tired.”

“That’s okay.” Roman said.

“I mean… I get it,” Virgil said quietly. “Logan’s got stuff to worry about already. But he’s getting better, isn’t he? He’s allowed to drive and use phones and everything again. And it’s—it’s like Ro said, the stuff you’re working on is easy for him. I’m not—I’m not saying it is easy,” he amended quickly, even though Patton hadn’t been offended. “Logan’s just….”

“A huge nerd?” Roman suggested.

“A huge nerd. In a good way. Not being like him doesn’t make someone dumb. And you—” he fixed Patton with such an intense stare that the sophomore actually shrank backwards a bit. “ _You. Are. Not. Dumb_. Nobody thinks you are. Not me, not Roman, not Talyn or Joan… and _Logan_ sure as heck doesn’t think you’re dumb either.”

“But….”

Virgil was clearly running out of steam (that still happened sometimes when he talked a lot, though he was getting better) so Roman jumped in.

“If we’re not allowed to talk bad about ourselves, neither are you.”

Patton looked at them both for a second. Virgil was chewing the corner of his bottom lip and Roman had half a piece of Crofter’s-covered toast forgotten in one hand, but both were looking at him intently.

“O-o-okay. You’re right. I just got a bit silly, I suppose. I don’t like not understanding things.”

“We know,” Roman said. “You could always get someone else to tutor you, but I’m sure Logan’ll help if you ask…. Where is he, anyway?” He frowned slightly, leaning away from the table to look around.

Patton searched the room for a moment too, then glanced at the Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist. Logan should definitely have been here by now, if he were coming.

Virgil briefly chewed his lip a bit more intensely than before, then stopped and opened his mouth. “He—could he be sick?”

Roman sighed. “Probably… I hope he’s okay. Logan never misses class.”

That was true. The first time any of them remembered Logan missing class had been when he’d gone to the hospital after his accident. Logan valued class attendance too highly, and he was religious about hygiene, so he rarely so much as caught a mild cold. Recently, though, things were different.

“Could be another doctor’s appointment,” Patton mused noncommittally.

“I thought he had one on Friday, though,” Virgil pointed out with a frown.

Roman shrugged. “He’s probably fine.” He set down the toast that he seemed to finally remember was in his hand. “I for one am just glad he’s taking care of himself.”

Virgil nodded in agreement. Patton took a sip from his drink and didn’t respond.

“Hey…uh, you’ve got an art class today, right?” Virgil asked, changing the subject.

Patton nodded, brightening. “I sure do!”

“What are you working on?”

Patton turned to grab a little sketchbook from his backpack and opened it up, showing Virgil a few sketches as he talked about his current project. He knew Virgil was trying to distract him. He let him do it.


	4. Chapter 4 (Deceit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This chapter has Deceit in it, but because I know not everyone likes his character, I'm going to try to keep his storyline separable from the larger story. So if you'd rather skip this part, you won't be confused for part 5.

The gallant knight slowly unsheathed his sword and held it aloft in a fighting stance, slowly and purposefully circling his opponent. His feet were sure on the slick floor of the cavern, and his bright eyes gleamed in the dim light as they took in the man before him. His free hand slowly rose to beckon him closer.

The villain smirked and slid his own weapon free of its sheath. He sauntered forward with the sword, and the golden beams of light illuminating the space glinted off of its sleek metal. He pointed it at the knight with a calm, unconcerned ease.

“You will never again terrorize this kingdom, foul demon,” the knight proclaimed, unperturbed. “If we need fight, then we shall. And I will surely triumph. You are surrounded. My fellow knights near with every second. Even so, I offer you one final opportunity: surrender, and I shall spare you your life.”

The villain stared, almost in disbelief. The knight waited, ready. As proof of his claim, the sound of hooves neared, growing louder and louder, a thunder of sound promising death.

The villain’s sword dipped down, just slightly.

“I…” the villain’s eyes, poisonous green, squinted. They drifted down, towards the cold stone floor. The man who had terrorized a kingdom for a decade sighed in defeat. “I accept your gracious offer.”

The knight, satisfied at the villain’s good sense, reached to take the hilt of his weapon.  But then, at the very instant his fingertips brushed the hilt, a loud  _clang_ echoed through the cavern. The knight stared in shock as his faithful, beloved sword, a gift from his father the king, was knocked to the ground. The hero was barely able to roll out of the way of the next attack as the villain advanced, his dark cape flowing out behind him.

“Deceiver!” The knight cried, getting to his feet.

The man before him merely grinned, his white teeth glittering. He swung down again for another strike, which the knight dodged. A leather-gloved hand came up and gripped the wrist that held the sword, barely keeping it from claiming his head. His opponent’s eyes widened in surprise.

The knight, without his weapon, had to think fast. He curled his free hand into a fist, and in a desperate hope, he swung—!

And far,  _far_  too quickly, Roman’s acting partner jerked away.

Roman pulled back. “What was that? It was going so well!” he cried, practically whining—but who cared? The magic was ruined! He himself had been all but lost in the scene, and judging by the silence around them, so had most of the cast and crew watching the practice. Now they all seemed to be coming out of their trance, and conversation and movement surrounded them once again.

“I told you,” D snapped as the crowd dispersed, dropping his prop sword to the wooden stage with a huff. “Not from the left! The punch has to be from the  _other_ side.”

“But that doesn’t  _work_ ,” Roman pointed out for what was probably the tenth time. “The angle is much better for the audience—and besides, my other arm is _kinda_ busy with your sword.”

D glared at him. “It looks far better the other way.”

“It does not,” Roman countered. “You know that.”

“Well,” D drawled. “I’m glad you’re so sure about that. Perhaps my understudy will agree.”

Roman stared. “What?”

D studied one of his gloves. “It would surely be a shame, wouldn’t it, if you had to switch costars with only a month before the performance?”

Roman gaped at him. “You wouldn’t drop out of the play over one bit of choreography!”

“Oh, no, of _course_  not,” D drawled, looking back up at him, although the glitter in his eyes promised otherwise.

Roman frowned, bending to retrieve his own prop sword from the floor. He slid it slowly back into its faux leather sheath. No, he didn’t really want to test that. As nice as D’s understudy was—a far more pleasant guy, really, who  _hadn’t_ abandoned one of Roman’s friends when he was in need—he was not exactly going to win any awards in acting. If Roman wanted this play to turn out as he dreamed, he needed D as his costar.

“I’ll look into it,” he finally obliged, frowning up at D once more before turning and exiting the stage, his scarlet cape billowing out after him.

As he put away his props and costume, several of Roman’s costars came to congratulate him on a great practice, and on his play as a whole.

That was part of why Roman was especially determined to make this play’s performance unforgettable. It was  _his play_. Twice a year, the college he attended put on a play written by one of its students. This honor was almost exclusively offered to senior screenwriters; so the fact that Roman, a junior, was one of the students chosen this year was no small feat.

He had to make sure it was perfect.

…

The next afternoon, although they did not have rehearsal, Roman made his way to the theatre department. He knew the man he was looking for tended to hang out there.

And, indeed, there he was, lounging on top of an old bit of scenery backstage: part of what had probably been a balcony.

“Oh, you. Did you fix it?” D asked as Roman approached, looking down at him from his perch.

“I told you, I’m working on it,” Roman sighed.

“It’s a simple fix, I really don’t see the problem,” he said languidly. “What do you want, then?”

“Well, you know I’m supposed to submit the final promotional flyer tonight,” Roman said. “And, you know, we kinda need your name. For the program.”

“Seth.”

“Seth?”

“That’s my name.”

“I have never once heard you go by Seth. Yesterday you told Camden your name was Dennis.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I never said that,” D said, smirking like a Cheshire cat. “If you simply  _must_  know, my name is actually Delilah. Seth is my middle name.”

“Riiiight,” Roman said blandly. “Look, you don’t want to give anyone your actual name, fine! Plenty of people don’t like their given names. Just give me something to put down.”

D opened his mouth again, probably to give him another blatant lie, but Roman cut him off.

“Give me a stage name. You’re never going to get anywhere in theatre if you don’t have a consistent name, are you? It doesn’t have to be your real name. Just give me a stage name. Just pick one.”

D seemed to ponder for a moment. Then he brushed his blonde hair—long on only one side for whatever reason—from his face, leaned forward, and grinned down at Roman. “You know what? You’re the playwright.  _Surprise me_.”

Roman scoffed, turned around, and walked away.

When he sat down at a computer soon after, he sat there for a while watching the cursor blink in the blank spot where his costar’s name was supposed to go.

Finally, he began to type, shaking his head as he did so. If D hated it, it was his own fault for making Roman choose. He hit ‘submit’ on the final document before he could rethink it.

**Coming April 26-28:**

**KNIGHTS OF LIGHT AND SHADOW**

**Starring: _Roman Reyes Espinosa_  and  _Deceit._**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: censored swearing, slamming doors, headache mention

On Monday night, Virgil was just trying to mind his own business, getting started on an essay for his Spanish class—just a boring analysis of a story they were reading with a love triangle or something (ugh)—when he heard the apartment door unlock. Virgil glanced up towards the door, wondering why Remy was home so early.

Only to jump when the door was slammed shut, Remy’s bag thrown to the ground with a seemingly undue amount of vehemence. Remy himself let out a groan of rage, stalking towards his bedroom and slamming that door behind him too, even louder than the first. Virgil swore he heard a cracking sound.

Virgil stared after him, his eyes as wide as saucers. He sat there in shock for several minutes, then slowly put his laptop and papers to the side. He got up and padded over to Remy’s closed door

Virgil hesitantly raised a hand, then set his jaw and knocked quietly, wanting to see if his roommate was alright.

“F*ck off, Virgil!”

Virgil took a sharp step away, yanking his hand back like he’d been burned. He heard a few tearing sounds from within the room, followed by a muffled crash.

Okay, so Remy was clearly _not_ alright; but it was also just as clear that now was a bad time. Virgil awkwardly backtracked, going back over to his laptop.

Virgil had already finished his essay—a four-page monstrosity in Spanish—by the time he saw his roommate again. Even then, all he did was emerge to drag his bag into his room and shut the door again. No hello, no acknowledgement of Virgil or of what had happened earlier.

He didn’t see Remy again that night.

…

The next morning, Virgil drove to campus at an ungodly early hour to print his Spanish paper at the library, so it was no surprise that he didn’t see Remy before he left.

At the library, because luck was always on Virgil’s side, one of the printers was occupied with someone’s 100-page packet (perhaps an exaggeration, but it didn’t feel that way), and the other one was jammed. So, by the time he made it to his Spanish class, he only had about ten seconds to spare. He plopped down in his seat, panting slightly, just before the professor shut and locked the door.

They spent much of the class period going over each other’s papers. Virgil didn’t really see the point—it was only the second Spanish class most of them had taken, so none of them were very good at the language’s vocabulary or grammar, and many of the notes they made on each other’s assignments were likely incorrect. Wouldn’t it have been better to get corrections from the actual professor? But he figured she’d probably have claimed it was good practice or something. He didn’t know.

At the end of class, Virgil traded papers back with the girl he’d been partnered with, regarding the liberally applied red pen on his own work with a sigh.

…

Just as on Monday, Logan wasn’t at lunch that day either.

Patton kept looking around, a worried frown on his face, clearly not paying much attention to either Virgil’s or Roman’s attempts at conversation. After about twenty minutes of this, Virgil slipped his essay out of his bag and slid it over to Roman across the table.

“Hey, um, could you look at this for me?” he asked. “We’re supposed to edit them but, like, I’m not sure if these corrections are right.”

Roman took the paper, and a delighted look came over his face when he realized that it was a Spanish assignment. He was always trying to get Virgil to speak Spanish with him.

“ _¡Que chévere!_ ” he said.

“Um—” Virgil wanted to be clear, “—just make sure the grammar corrections are right, please. I’m not—I’m not really s’posed to ask native speakers for help.” He wasn’t actually sure on that, since it wasn’t as if he were asking Roman to write the paper for him, but he figured his professor would have frowned on it anyway.

“Well, technically, I didn’t start learning Spanish until I was four,” Roman said with a mischievous shrug. “But, okay, corrections only. I’ll look it over, if you ask me nicely, _en español_.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “ _Ayúdame con el ensayo, por favor_ ,” he recited flatly.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Roman grinned.

Roman took out a pencil and had been marking up the page for about five minutes, Virgil leaning across the table to watch, when Patton seemed to give up on Logan showing up (by this point, their free period was already more than half over). He slumped down in his seat with a sigh and seemed to notice for the first time what Virgil and Roman were doing.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“An essay about a beautiful, tragic, and tragically fictional love story,” Roman answered. “Although, it could _definitely_ be gayer.”

“It’s just a plain old love triangle,” Virgil sighed. “Nothing we haven’t read fifty times before.”

Roman shrugged. “Yeah, well.”

“Is it for your Spanish class?” Patton asked.

“Yep. I think my chem professor might be confused if I try to hand this in to him.”

“Not if the characters have a lot of chemistry!”

Virgil smirked, but there was also a brief, half-second-long awkward pause: normally, Logan would have groaned loudly at the pun, but he wasn’t here. Patton looked a little put out. Roman tried to jump in.

“Good one, Pat!” he said, sounding just a slightly forced.

Patton smiled, his eyes a little sad. “So, I meant to tell you guys… thanks for putting up with that… whatever that was, yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Roman insisted. “Everyone gets a little insecure sometimes.” Virgil nodded to show his agreement.

“Still… I know I was being a bit ridiculous. So, thanks.”

Virgil put his head down on his arms, resting on the table. “Nah, that wasn’t ridiculous.” His voice was slightly muffled now, but still perfectly understandable.

“I just hope Logan’s okay.”

“Just wait, he’s gonna show up tomorrow, just fine,” Roman said. “Probably completely oblivious that we were worried about him.”

“I’m gonna shoot him a text,” Virgil said. Maybe he could find out what was going on. He knew Patton had already been texting him, but none of them had checked in within the past few hours. He freed one of his arms to grab for his phone. As he finished typing out his message, Roman slid his essay back across the table, the corrections corrected.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Or _gracias_ , if it’ll make you happy.”

“It does,” Roman said, so seriously that Patton giggled. Virgil shook his head and hit ‘send’.

 **Virgil** : Hey L, you coming to history today?

He waited several minutes. It was getting pretty close to when they had to head to class. Finally, three dots appeared on screen, showing that Logan was typing.

 **Logan:** No

“That’s it?” Patton asked, sounding disappointed. He’d been watching the phone screen over Virgil’s shoulder. “Just ‘no’?”

Virgil shrugged, and typed another message. Roman reached over and grabbed his and Patton’s trays, setting them on top of his own before getting up to take care of them. They really were running out of time. Class started in six minutes, and it took five to get there.

 **Virgil** : Any reason why?

There was another pause, and then:

 **Logan** : Hesadaxhe

Virgil blinked, for a second wondering if Logan was typing in some foreign language.

“…Headache?” Patton guessed.

“Probably what he meant,” Virgil sighed in agreement. He sent off one last pair of quick texts as he grabbed his bag, and the three of them headed off to class.

 **Virgil** : Sorry

 **Virgil:** Feel better!

The short, clipped texts felt rather hollow, but he hoped Logan would realize that it was only because of the time. Besides, if Logan had a headache, he probably wouldn't want to be reading a paragraph, anyway. Virgil hoped he was alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question for the comments, because why not: What's your favorite kind of candy?


	6. Chapter 6

That afternoon, Virgil had a shift at the record shop he worked at; so, it was rather late by the time he made it back to the crummy apartment complex he called home.

He entered his apartment and shut the door behind him as silently as the hinges allowed. All the lights in the apartment were off, including those in Remy’s room—the door was half-open—but Virgil could see a bluish glow within, roughly where Remy’s bed was. Probably from either his laptop or his phone.

Remy didn’t call out a greeting, and Virgil just crept past, not wanting to get yelled at like he had the day before. One of the floorboards creaked under his foot, but Remy still didn’t acknowledge him.

Virgil wondered what was going on with him. They’d gotten the insomnia thing sorted out months before, hadn’t they? And it was spring, so the odds were that it wasn’t related to his seasonal depression. Something must have happened on Monday.

Should he try to ask? Or would he just get yelled at again? Virgil honestly had no idea.

He ended up settling for spending the rest of the evening hanging out in the main room, rather than in his bedroom, in case Remy decided that he wanted to talk.

Even so, Virgil was surprised when, a few hours later, he heard shuffling footsteps coming up behind the couch. He turned his head to look, and there was his roommate: he had a blanket tugged around his shoulders, his sunglasses on crooked, and his hair hanging down in loose tangles. Virgil silently moved his feet so there’d be room for him to sit down.

Remy did, sighing heavily. For several long minutes, neither of them said anything, just watching the television, which was playing a rerun of an old game show.

“Sorry,” Remy said, breaking the silence. His voice cracked in a way that sounded almost painful. Had… had he been crying?

“Hm?”

“Sorry,” Remy repeated. He cleared his throat. “For yelling at ya earlier.”

“You mean yesterday?”

Remy was silent for a second. “Right,” he commented absently.

“I mean…” Virgil sighed. “It’s fine, I guess.” Part of him wanted to be more upset about having been told to ‘f--- off’, but Remy looked pretty rough. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm.” Remy leaned the back of his head against the couch. “Nah, girl,” he admitted, shutting his eyes.

“’Nah’?” Virgil echoed. “What’s going on?”

There was another long silence. Virgil was starting to wonder if his roommate had fallen asleep, when Remy suddenly moved, pushing himself up from the couch in one quick movement.

“Good night,” he muttered, shuffling off back towards his room. Virgil stared after him.

…

“So,” Virgil asked conversationally at lunch the next day, glancing at Roman. “Can I ask you something?”

The three friends—Virgil, Roman, and Patton—were all sitting together in the cafeteria. Logan still wasn’t there. None of them had seen him that day, and he hadn’t responded to a text that Patton had sent asking if he was coming

Patton seemed agitated, pushing around his food with his fork without making any mood to take a bite. Virgil himself was growing increasingly uneasy, too, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. He needed to create some sort of distraction, anything to distract himself and the others from their worry. He’d have preferred to talk with Patton directly, but he wasn’t sure that Patton would actually answer him.

“Certainly,” Roman said, setting down his own fork.

“Why’d you only start learning Spanish when you were four? Your mom’s a native speaker, isn’t she? Or did you just say that so I’d feel better about you helping me with my paper?”

Roman grinned. “Well, first of all, that was three questions,” he joked, holding up his pointer finger. “But, that was true. And both of my parents were native speakers, actually.”

Virgil gave him a baffled look.

“I think they wanted not to speak Spanish,” Roman shrugged. “They changed their mind when Emilio was born, though.”

“Why wouldn’t they want you to speak Spanish?” Patton asked, finally looking up from his stir fry. He blinked in confusion.

Roman looked thoughtful. “You know, I don’t know. Maybe they though English was more American.”

Virgil snorted.

“I think it’s cool you speak Spanish,” Patton mumbled, going back to poking at his food.

“Thanks, Padre,” Roman said, smiling.

Virgil was trying to figure out what to say next when he saw someone walking up to the table out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look.

“Logan!” Roman cried in delighted surprise. Patton’s head shot up. His mouth opened slightly.

Logan, who looked perfectly normal, set down a textbook on the table and pulled out the chair next to Virgil. “Greetings,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been gone for two days.

“You! You’re back!” Patton said, stating the obvious. He was sitting up straight, staring at Logan like he couldn’t quite believe he was there.

“I am,” Logan confirmed. “I apologize for my tardiness. One of my professors wanted to discuss my recent absences.”

“I’ll fight them,” Patton promised.

“It was nothing bad,” Logan said. “She just wanted to find a time to schedule a test that I missed.”

Virgil, who had been about to take a bite of his sandwich, paused.

“Wait,” Roman suddenly said, appearing to surprise even himself with the volume of the word. “You missed a test?”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “Yes, well….”

“Are your headaches getting worse?” Patton asked in a small voice.  
Logan sighed. “No,” he said. “No, I promise, they’re not. But they’re also….”

“Not getting better?” Virgil finished uncertainly.

Logan nodded once.

“Oh, Logan,” Patton said softly.

“Couldn’t they still get better?” Roman asked. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“They could,” Logan said. “My doctor does not seem overly optimistic, however. In any case, I have to deal with them now, so the uncertainty of the future is not pertinent to my current situation.”

“Hm.”

 _Still, that sucks_ , Virgil thought. He glanced over at the clock. They were running a little short on time.

“Want half my sandwich?” Virgil offered, waving it temptingly. Logan didn’t have any lunch yet, and the line was rather long. Patton would probably pout if Logan left them again before their free period was over.

“That’s quite alright, Virgil,” Logan said. “I can simply—.” He broke off, apparently catching sight of Patton’s expression. He sighed. “Very well. I shall compensate you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Virgil said. Logan accepted the sandwich.

“So,” he said, inspecting the sandwich like he was looking for the best place to bite. “Have I missed anything while I was gone?”

Roman perked up. “Well, there is this play that I’ve been meaning to tell you guys about….”


End file.
